Saving Grace
by Amanda Fair
Summary: On a hunt by himself, Dean has a soul-wrenching nightmare of his time in Hell and wakes up screaming yet again. Thankfully, Castiel chose that night to stop in on his human friend and offers him a little comfort. Oneshot and slight Destiel


**Author's Note: **I haven't written anything in probably a year so this little one-shot is me trying to get back in the game :) Set in Season 5, before Dean and Sam go to Heaven. Slight Destiel if you want to imagine that, if not then just strong friendship. Read, enjoy, and maybe review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Dean, Castiel, or Supernatural, nor am I profiting in any way from this story. Rated T for some mild language

* * *

It was a well-known fact that Dean Winchester did not have nightmares.

For years, Sam would have nightmares inspired by the things they had seen hunting, the deaths they had witnessed, Jessica dying in front of his eyes over and over again. He would wake up screaming night after night, inhuman sounds ripping from his throat.

Every time, Dean would wake up and comfort his younger brother, sometimes in a joking way by calling him a girl and a bitch, mocking him to hide the way his hand would tenderly rub circles in his back as he soothed him back to a more peaceful sleep. Always, it was Sam who had the nightmares.

Even when they stayed at Bobby's house, on the extremely rare night, the brothers could hear Bobby moaning his wife's name in his sleep, watching some horrifying scene involving her pain and death replaying before his dream eyes over and over again. He'd come out of his bedroom in the morning with darker circles under his eyes and a haunted look but making no mention of the nightmare that had left him moaning and shouting incoherently through the night. The brothers didn't talk about his nightmares or their own, letting the horror die in the silence.

But through it all, there was one fact that Dean let no one forget. He did not have nightmares.

Sam would stay up hours and hours into the night, doing research or putting off sleep until the last moment – terrified of his own nightmares and willing to avoid them for as long as possible – but he never heard Dean make a sound. He would collapse into bed, bone weary and haggard, and would lie still until the moment he waked. He didn't thrash, didn't cry, moan, scream, or make any kind of sound indicating any horrors that trapped him in dreams.

But then he went to Hell and suddenly all bets were off.

Dean was desperate for Sam to never see him weak or broken, never wanted his brother to see him terrified by the memories and thoughts in his head. He would bury himself in blankets and underneath pillows in case a nightmare trapped him, muffling his moans into cheap motel sheets and dirty pillowcases.

Sam never witnessed any of his nightmares and never knew how badly Hell had twisted Dean. The older Winchester still acted like himself – even more like himself then usual if anyone noticed – and drank, joked, and flirted with women, always smiling and laughing. Nothing but the depths of his eyes showed how broken his soul really was deep down.

One cold December night, Dean found himself alone on a hunt, somewhere in the desolation of small town Montana. Sam had been listless and unhappy so Dean offered to take on this small town haunting alone, giving his baby brother a few glorious days off to rest and recharge. He promised he could handle the hunt perfectly fine by himself and that he'd be up to spend Christmas at Bobby's house before long.

After talking to witness' and doing the research that usually was Sam's job, the weary hunter returned to the dingy motel room late after a visit to the local bars. He knew where the ghost was and just had to find the bones, salt them, burn them, and things would be back to normal and he could be on his way once more. It all could wait until the morning; this particular ghost seemed bent on scaring people but not doing any sort of actual damage. It wasn't a pressing manner.

Of course, that meant Dean had nothing to distract him from sleeping and the inevitable nightmares.

He tried to hold off sleeping for as long as possible. Listening to music – because really, who can't listen to Carry On My Wayward Son 20 times in a row? – watching crappy TV, and finally just pacing back and forth until his eyes felt like sandpaper. Finally, Dean couldn't hold off the need for rest any longer and collapsed into the bed, shutting his eyes and letting his mind turn off.

Maybe he would get lucky and his inner demons would have the night off? Maybe for once, he could get through the night without waking up with his eyes wet and his spirit just a little bit more broken. Maybe.

No such luck.

Moments after Dean shut his eyes and began to relax, a cold sensation began to run along his spine, bringing his eyes instantly open and wrenching him upright in the bed. That sensation – the cold, dead feeling that seemed to run down his back and spread throughout his bones, until his very core felt iced over – was a dreaded, familiar feeling. He'd felt that sensation before countless times in the Pit, whenever his tormentor was close, whenever he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was about to be ripped in half or made to rip someone else in half. Already, he could almost feel the pain, see the blood of either his own or some poor bastard coating his clothes.

"Ahhh…my prodigy, how I've missed you." The voice of all Dean's nightmares, all his shame, spoke in his snake-like voice in the darkness. Whirling around, hand already reaching for the gun under his pillow, Dean muttered curses under his breath in a rapid-fire succession.

Alastair, the head torturer in the Pit of Hell, stood at the foot of the bed, grinning his maniacal grin that always spread across his evil face when he was enjoying some poor soul's torment and pain. And who could deny Dean was his favorite? He "played" with him every day for decades, ripping and cutting and laughing at Dean's moans and screams; the louder his screams, the more Alastair laughed. Pain was such a delight to the demon monster.

Before Dean's hand even fully closed on the hilt of his gun, Alastair flicked a lazy hand and the human was sent flying, twisting in midair so that his back slammed painfully against the motel wall.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean cursed, spitting blood out of his mouth. He watched with fear and fury as his tormentor walked calmly across the room, his eye's never leaving Dean's; his smile never wavered.

"Tsk tsk, such language. What would _daddy_ think? I can't recall him cursing much when I ripped him open day after day…though, he didn't use very many words. Mostly screams and sobbing but I'm sure you recall how that is." He laughed then – a gleeful, evil sound – as Dean swallowed more curses and insults. They wouldn't offend him and it would just give him more fuel to the fire that would eventually consume what was left of his soul.

"I watched you _die_, you creepy son of a bitch. Why are you here? _How _are you here?" Dean snarled, hoping the fury in his voice hid the terror in his heart, the slight tremble of his fingers, the paleness of his face. Alastair chuckled and moved to stand in front of his human victim, twitching his fingers to make the pressure on Dean increase.

"Why? How? My dear boy, I'm here to congratulate you! Never before has one of my little prodigies come so far. I never knew when I was ripping your soul a new one day after day you'd become so…so…_just so like me_. It's really quite flattering, Dean. You imitate me so well, torturing and killing and showing absolutely no mercy – not even to that sweet brother of yours – that I sometimes find it hard to believe you aren't a full fledged demon yourself yet." Alastair crowed, pacing back and forth in front of Dean as he talked, demonic eyes glowing brightly with pleasure at the pain apparent on the mortal man's face.

Every word twisted a knife of fear and shame deeper into Dean's heart. Was Alastair right? Was he really that evil and merciless? He tried to save people, tried to make up for the sins of Hell – even if he knows, deep down, that he'll never be able to erase that blemish from his soul – and he tried to even forgive Sam for choosing a demon over him. Didn't that prove he wasn't so evil?

"I am _nothing _like you, Alastair. I never will be! You can't convince me that I'll ever be anything like you so why don't you just crawl back into the Pit?" Dean sneered, shoving all the doubt deep inside of him and refusing to acknowledge it. He soul-searched every day, he worried about his humanity and if he truly was a demon so much during the days and endless nightmare-filled nights but he'd be damned if he let Alastair see how badly his words effected him.

Alastair grinned.

"Sure, Sure, Dean-O. I only came up here after all to say how proud I am of you….honestly, down there, we thought Sam would turn demon but we're being pleasantly surprised by you. Anyway, I'm sure I should just let you go and get back to whatever quasi-heroic thing you were doing but I think I'll leave you with a little….parting gift." His evil smile and the way his fingers were practically twitching against his legs told Dean all he needed to know. He could barely find time to scream before the first agonizing blast of demonic power slammed into him, opening up cuts and ripping them wider and wider until the human blood began drenching the carpet.

Sam wasn't there this time. No one would be there to save him from the torture….he was back in the Pit, just like that. And he screamed.

In the midst of the torture that seemed to rip his soul in half and make any sort of pain he'd ever experience seem like a tickle…Dean heard a voice. At first he couldn't make it out over the sounds of his own screams but it kept increasing in volume until it was the only thing he could hear, even over the inhuman screams and Alastair's coarse laughter.

"_Dean_." It wasn't a shout or a whisper and yet it filled his senses and before Dean could comprehend what was happening, his eyes were flying open and he was bolting up right in bed, strangled yell on his lips and one hand flying to clutch at his gun. He was ready to blast Alastair right back to Hell but after a few seconds panting and shaking, he realized that what he originally thought was his inner demon come back from Hell had actually just been another nightmare.

"Dean." The aforementioned human gave a incoherent shout and whirled around on the bed – nearly falling over or firing the gun carelessly in the process – merely to find Castiel, Angel of the Lord and his very unusual friend and ally, sitting on the edge of the bed behind him.

"Damn it, Cas! You nearly gave me a freaking heart attack...again." Dean growled weakly, annoyed at the scare but also feeling very relieved to see the angel. Castiel, clad in his usual trenchcoat, loose tie, and dark suit, sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Dean in what could have been confusion or concern; with an angel who was just now learning human behavior, emotions, and expression, it was rather hard to tell at times.

"My apologies. You appeared to be having some sort of nightmare. I assumed you would have wanted to be awoken but I apologize if this was not the case." Castiel deadpanned, his brilliant blue eyes scanning over Dean's face as though searching his expression for some clue as to what he did wrong or what he could have done instead that would have been more "human".

Dean slumped back against the headrest of the bed next to Castiel, running a shaking hand over his face. He could still hear Alastair's words and laughter, could still feel the pain coursing through his body…how could it have been a dream? But then again…Alastair's words…maybe that wasn't a dream, maybe that was all real.

"Nevermind, Cas. I hate stupid nightmares and you waking me up was just what I needed. Just…my mind isn't in the best place right now, you know?" He muttered, rubbing his hands through his hair and trying not to think of anything lest he break in half from the pain pulsing through his heart. He shut his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, Castiel was leaning in and laying two fingers against his forehead.

"Wha – Cas, don't send me back in time or put me to sleep, please!" Dean begged but he didn't vanish nor did he fall instantly asleep. Instead, all the images, feelings, and words from the dream came flooding back to his mind and flashing in front of his eyes at a rapid pace, making Dean gasp in pain and fear.

After a few seconds, the sensory assault ceased and Dean slumped back and gripped his head, trying to calm his rapid breathing. Castiel shifted by his side and cleared his throat.

"Again, I apologize. I was…trying to see what "place" your mind was in and I thought it best if I understood what kind of nightmare you had. I'm sorry I caused you pain." Castiel apologized, sounding truly unhappy at the prospect of causing his only friend any sort of pain. He wasn't used to having such a frail friend and he tried so hard to avoid harming him or allowing any sort of harm to befall him, despite the dangers they both found themselves in so frequently.

"So you went into my head and saw my nightmare? You couldn't have just asked?" Dean growled and squeezed his eyes shut, not trusting them to keep dry if he kept them open or saw any sort of sympathy on the angel's face.

"In the past, I have asked you and you've said, and I quote, "Shut your cakehole, I am not having a chick flick moment by spilling the secrets of my deepest fears." I just thought it would be easier to forgo asking…that way, I'd know what it was that bothered you and you wouldn't have to tell me. I am sorry if it disturbed you or caused you pain." Castiel explained quietly, brilliant blue eyes scanning over Dean, concerned with how he remained pushed against the headboard, hunched forward with his head in his hands. Dean was not one for theatrics or for allowing others to see him in pain, thus if he were still recovering from the nightmare it must have really hurt him.

"Yeah well, now you know. You saw the nightmare and no, I don't want to talk about it." Dean snarled, trying to hold onto anger to make the pain fade away. It worked after his dad's death so surely if he kept trying that method, the pain would go away. But yet it wasn't and he was dangerously close to losing all manner of control.

"Dean, why do you wish to avoid talking? You're obviously in pain and I don't understand why…the dream Alastair was speaking vile lies and half-truths. Why does it hurt so badly?" Castiel questioned, his head cocking to one side in his innocent curiosity and confusion. Dean opened his eyes for the briefest of seconds and looked up just in time for his mortal green eyes to meet angelic blues and he could see the curiosity of his friend, the regret of him being in pain, and worst of all, pity.

Castiel pitied him for all the pain he suffered, the nightmares that plagued him, and the tragedy that followed his life from the time he was a child. No one pitied Dean Winchester, not one soul. He was a merciless killer of demons and supernatural monsters, requiring no pity due to his strength and his ability to cope with even the worst of horrors. But yet, this angel that seemed to follow his every move and claimed to have a "profound bond" with him sat staring at him with pity and understanding and God, it hurt so badly that Dean didn't know how he drew his next breath.

"He wasn't lying!" Dean shouted and shot up so suddenly that if Castiel had been mortal, he would have flinched away from his fury. Instead, he sat quietly and watched as Dean paced the length of the room, ranting and raving with eyes that looked mysteriously bright.

"Alastair said a lot of things in that dream but he wasn't lying! Can't you see? Can't any of you stupid angels and Michael and God knows who else who thinks I'm so great see that? I'm no better then a freaking demon! Sam drinks demon blood and sleeps with demons but I'm the one who tortured men in hell…I watched them die over and over, every single day...I took away their hope and twisted their souls and created demons and monsters out of people, out of humans who were just like me at one point! And not just men but women….God forgive me but children even sometimes…I tortured them and I enjoyed it and laughed at their pain and screams and I am a monster, Cas. I'm the monster and if you knew what was good for you, you'd kill me right now cause no God would want someone as evil as me doing their work." And with that rant over, all his anger and pride and courage and fear spent and faded away to someplace he couldn't reach, Dean finally broke.

Collapsing onto his knees, he bowed his head and he wept for all the pain he had caused, all the suffering he experienced, for every tear he'd held in, for the years he had spent bleeding and broken and trying to be okay. Dean had spent years holding all these tears but now that he was alone save for the pure angel that had gripped him tight and raised him from perdition and saved his life more times then he could count; he finally felt comfortable (or desperate) enough to completely lose control and let his pride rest for a moment. He just wanted to cry or stop feeling…it felt like the pain, shame, and guilt would rip him apart, tearing his soul in half, and he couldn't stand the torture.

"Dean…Dean…" He didn't want to acknowledge the low, growly voice that kept repeating his name but when he heard the bed shift and knew Castiel had gotten up, he forced his eyes up though his head remained bowed.

Castiel moved from the bed and with his usual slow, controlled steps approached his fallen friend and dropped into a crouch in front of Dean. Usually, he didn't show very many human emotions – either because he didn't know how to properly express them or even could acknowledge them to himself – and he felt very little for the suffering of man around him. Yes, he felt a measure of sorrow when he saw good men suffering but he didn't have a personal connection to them and the angels always had to keep themselves somewhat guarded. If they bleed for every human hurting, they would be so burdened with the pain and suffering, their wings would hardly manage to lift them from the ground.

But this wasn't just another man. This was Castiel's only true friend, this was the man he dove headlong into Hell and suffered unknown pains – even after his brothers had given up – just to rip his screaming, near inhuman soul from the flames and painstakingly, tenderly put him back together and breath life and grace back into a broken soul and body. This was the human that rescued him and saved him and taught him how to dance and lie and love. This was his Dean.

"Dean, look at me." Castiel commanded in his grave voice, softening the roughness so it came out as a gentle command. Though Dean would have rather looked anywhere but into the eyes of purity – surely God himself couldn't have eyes that beautiful and innocent – he managed to raise his eyes and stare into their cobalt depths.

"You are not a monster. All the words Alastair spoke in that nightmare, all the things you think about yourself…all of them are mere lies and doubts and surely you've figured out by now that doubt does not come from God but from Lucifer himself. You are a good man and you suffered unimaginable pain in Hell, a pain that caused you to do terrible things but those actions weren't of your heart or will and they did not taint your soul at all. It is still as beautiful and pure as it ever was and you must believe me. You must forgive yourself…God has forgiven you, I would not be here if He had not. But I am here and I will not leave you, no matter what you believe about yourself, because I can see your heart and soul and they are the most beautiful of all the mortals."

Castiel spoke all of this slowly, carefully, meaning every word and never moving his eyes from Dean's. He had to make him understand, it was his job to fix Dean and he had been trying every day since the moment he grabbed his soul and held it close to his own Grace.

Dean listened to every word and his eyes filled to the brim with tears once more – tears he no longer felt any shame for – and when Cas told him his soul was the most beautiful and that he deserved forgiveness, all the tears spilled forward and he dropped his eyes away with a sob.

Castiel didn't seem to mind and reached forward with delicate fingers to brush the tears from the hunter's face and after a moment of hesitation reached out his arms and pulled Dean into a tight, soothing hug. He knew Dean hated "chick flick" moments but he also had seen on those TV shows Sam delighted in watching that humans who were in pain, whether physical or emotional, gained comfort from physical contact with people and especially those of close friends. Castiel figured himself to be the closet friend Dean had outside of Sam.

"It's alright, Dean. I am here. Nothing is going to harm you, not tonight." Castiel murmured comfortingly and added a little rocking motion, hoping he was doing the "right thing". Humans had such complicated ways of interacting and sharing feelings; angels were far more simple in that manner but Castiel was taking it upon himself to learn all the ways of human interaction and emotions.

After a few more minutes, Dean's sobs quieted and he sniffled, trying to calm himself down.

"Thanks….thanks, Cas. I'm sorry for crying like a bitch but hey, at least I feel better." Dean whispered, daring not speak much louder then a whisper, lest he either cry more or realize how much he had cried and raise his barriers and shields around his emotions once more.

"A bitch is a female dog. Dogs don't typical cry and you certainly don't cry like them, Dean. But I accept your apology, even if there's nothing to apologize for. I am…your friend and this is what friends are for." Castiel explained calmly, soothingly and Dean had to laugh at the deadpan expression on his face. Of course he didn't understand the reference.

Castiel rose to his feet and helped pull Dean up and then pointed towards the bed.

"If you wish to go back to bed, I will stay and keep the nightmares away." He explained, moving towards the bed and gesturing for Dean to follow.

"Wait, you can do that?" Dean asked, hesitantly lying down. He didn't want to wake up screaming yet again, not after the last nightmare. He didn't even want to go back to sleep but he was bone-weary and needed a few hours to rest before he went back on the road, before he returned back to hunting.

"Yes, I can prevent the nightmares. Just lay down and close your eyes, I'll look after you." Castiel promised and waited patiently for Dean to settle on the bed, his head resting comfortable on the pillow and his body slowly relaxing. He shut his eyes and waited a moment, half expecting Cas to touch his forehead and send him crashing forcible back into sleep.

But that didn't happen…instead, the bed shifted slightly as Castiel settled onto the large bed beside Dean; far enough away to be a little less awkward but still rather close for Dean's comfort.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa. _Since when is this a sleepover? I already had one chick flick moment tonight and I'll be damned if I have any more!" Dean grumbled and considered sitting back up or getting off the bed but before he could move, a rush of warmth flooded over him, settling deep inside his chest, causing him to gasp. Before he could question what the hell _that _was, Castiel explained in a long-suffering voice.

"To protect you best from these nightmares I need to have my wings folded around you, Dean. You should consider this an honor; no human has ever been allowed to feel them before. It's a very personal thing for angels and only the purest of hearts can feel them. Based on your reaction, I would bet that you felt their warmth, thus proving my original point of the goodness of your heart. Regardless, you need sleep and I will lay here guarding you and meditating." Castiel explained all this and Dean listened, not daring to breath or believe what he said. The warmth, an angel's wings around him, goodness of his heart?

He didn't believe in his own goodness so how could anyone else? How could one of Hell's own be anything but corrupted, damned, and dirty? Dean would have argued but he was emotionally spent, physically exhausted, and (even though he would heartily deny it) Cas' invisible wings felt incredible comforting and warm.

"Fine. Goodnight Cas and…thanks. For everything." Dean whispered and closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax into the bed and snuggle against his pillows, unknowingly cocooning himself further into the angel wings.

"Goodnight Dean. Pleasant dreams." Castiel said softly and let his eyes drift shut as well, preparing himself to spend the night watching over his hunter, fighting off the nightmares, and mediating on just how this little human man had wormed his way so firmly into his heart.

That is how the angel and human spent that night and several more in the future, when the nightmares became too much for Dean and when Castiel couldn't take the doubts and uncertainties.

And Sam never had to know of his big brother's nightmares.


End file.
